Page 221 of Things We Left Behind
Ducking low to see through dark, fetid smoke, I headed away from the stairs and toward the kitchen. I was sweating freely.
“Sorry, Sloane. Do you know where the fire is located?”
“I think it’s on the first floor. I’m upstairs.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and blindly felt along the wall, bending over as far as I could in search of fresh air.
My fingers found the protrusion of the doorframe, and Ihurriedly reached for the handle. It was warmer than it should be against my palm.
“I’m putting out a call to the fire department now. Can you get out of the building safely?”
“I’m getting a fire extinguisher from the kitchen.”
“Ma’am—er, Sloane, I need you to tell me if you have a way to exit the building,” she said crisply.
“I’ll tell you after I find the damn extinguisher.” I was not about to go into battle unarmed. I felt inside the door for the light switch, but nothing happened when I flicked it.
Shit. No lights.
I stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the muffled conversation on the other end of the call.
“I have police officers responding to the scene now.”
“I would hope so, considering they’re literally in the same building.”
“You are to evacuate with them immediately. The fire department is on their way.”
My shin met something hard, and I went down with a yelp.
My phone and tote went flying.
The goddamn trash can. The dark and smoke made a familiar place a disorienting maze of danger.
“Damn you, Marjorie Ronsanto!” I muttered, climbing onto my hands and knees. It was a little cooler and a lot less smoky down here. I crawled forward, feeling around for the phone. “If you’re still there, Sharice, could you yell really loud or push some buttons?” I asked the dark.
But I realized the roaring wasn’t just in my ears. It was coming from beneath me.
“Why the fuck aren’t the sprinklers working, and where the fuck is the extinguisher?” I demanded.
Miraculously, I found my way to the cabinets and followed them to the far wall. I composed a staff-wide memo in my head as I crawled. Fire extinguishers will now be mounted inside the door, not all the way across the goddamn room. And Marjorie’s trash can was officially being retired to the dumpster.
My throat and lungs burned. I was sweating so profusely I wondered if it was possible to turn into a human raisin.
Finally, I ran forehead first into the far wall. “Ouch!”
Scrambling to my feet, I skimmed my hands in wide arcs over the drywall. My pinkie finger smashed into the metal canister, and I cried out in pain and triumph.
Blindly, I yanked the extinguisher off the wall.
“I got the extinguisher from the kitchen,” I yelled in case the call was still connected. I shuffled back toward the door as quickly as I dared. “I’m going to try to get down the stairs. If I can’t, I’ll go to one of the windows on the side—”
My foot met something unexpected, and I fell sideways awkwardly. My ribs met something hard and unmoving, knocking the wind out of me. The damn table I sat at every damn day.
“I won’t have a chance to die of smoke inhalation at this rate,” I wheezed. “I’m going to clumsy myself to death.”
The immovable thing on the floor turned out to be my tote bag. I shouldered it, tucked the extinguisher under my arm, and crawled out the door.
“Sloane!”
Sergeant Grave Hopper was calling for me from somewhere, and he soundedpissed.
